


The V. Secret Diary of Dante Alighieri

by opal_bullets



Category: La Divina Commedia | The Divine Comedy - Dante Alighieri
Genre: Gen, Humor, Parody, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-11
Updated: 2004-12-11
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opal_bullets/pseuds/opal_bullets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dante finds himself lost in some Woods near a Significant Hill, and is visited by the shade of his poetic hero Virgil. Virgil convinces him to take a trip through Hell. As is wont to happen in the Abyss, hilarity ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The V. Secret Diary of Dante Alighieri

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically the Inferno in a nutshell. So if you just want the Sparknotes and a few chuckles, great, but if you plan on reading the Commedia someday - which I do highly recommend - I'm ruining all the cool moments for you.
> 
> Also, religious content! I can't stress that enough. Since this isn't really a spot for my great secular DEFENSE OF DANTE, however, suffice it to say that unless you're a hardcore christian, you're going to end up disagreeing with a lot of the punishments going on up in here (or down in there). Especially since this version is meant to be funny, take all of it with a bucketload of salt.

Good Friday, in the Year of Our Lord 1300

~The Woods of Error~

Dante: Maybe it’s time to lay off the mulled wine.

After counting my monies last night I enjoyed an evening full of drunken revelry and feasting (despite the Lenten season). V. wild. I expected to wake up with nothing more than a headache and one of Guido’s servants, but what did I see but a dreary, dank, dark, icky, and completely-without-the-comfort-of-civilized-living Woods?! Realizing that somewhere I must have taken the wrong fork in the road while in a drunken stupor, I began to go toward the light and climbed the Hill, for, even at this strange and early point, I understood the special significance of this Hill. Virgil told me it is called the Mount of Joy. Virgil, yes, _the_ Virgil. But I should continue. Suddenly I was set upon by three large, rabid animals: the Wolf of Incontinence, the Lion of Violence and Ambition, and the Leopard of Malice and Fraud. As you can surely imagine, my first thought was okay, the wolf I get, but what are a lion and a leopard doing in the woods? Upon later inquiry Virgil said that heavy symbolism takes precedent over ecological accuracy.

Whatever that means.

Anyway, I didn’t know how many rabid beasts it would take to overcome me, but I knew how many were going to try, so I backed off, and despaired of ever reaching the top of the Highly Significant Hill. Just at my darkest moment, I heard v. unconventional mass music accompanied by a flash of light and the sudden appearance of a Human-like Entity. Completely without shame, I pleaded with it to help me. And lo! who was it but Virgil, that great poet of Trojan descent? He asked me what my trouble was and I responded,

“Hail Virgil, full of glory, my love is with thee.  
Blessed art thou among poets and  
Blessed is the fruit of thy pointy stylus.  
Dear Virgil, Father of the Roman Epic,  
Help your zealous acolyte  
Now as he’s preyed upon by rabid beasts! Amen!”

“Foolish poet!” Virgil gently chided. “You cannot beat these animals. Follow me instead through the Cold Fire, and then to the Joyous Fire, and finally to the Ecstatic Fire, where I am not allowed. There, a maiden shall await you.”

“A moment, Virgil, my Master! Did you just ask to lead me to Hell?”

“It is the only way for you to reach Paradise.”

“Well, I don’t kn-”

“Follow me.”

“Well, I want to, I mean, I would, but…”

“You must, Signor Alighieri.”

“You can call me Dante!” (I smiled broadly).

“Don’t change the subject.”

“Okay.”

“You’ll follow, then.”

“No, I meant, I mean, I’m…not worthy?”

“Dante, don’t be a coward.”

“I’m not a coward. It’s a perfectly good reason to-”

“Beatrice sent me.”

“My Dear Deceased Beatrice with whom I never consummated our True Love?! Why haven’t we left yet?!”

Virgil gave me the most stoic stare. “Right.”

 

Good Friday Evening, in the Year of Our Lord 1300

~The Gate~

After lots of walking, we reached the Gate of Hell. It was v. impressive. Its inscription read: 

YOU ARE OFFICIALLY DONE FOR 

And beneath, in smaller print:

SUCKERS. 

It could almost strike the Fear of God into you.

Almost.

The moment we passed through the doors, I was met with a wailing so hideous I thought of these second-rate madrigals I’d heard the other day. V. disgusted, I yelled, “My Guide, what is this obnoxious din?”

“It is the sound of suffering,” he answered calmly.

“But whose?”

“Those who have never chosen sides.” Virgil then went on to elaborate, “The angels who were neither for God nor Satan; those who helped only themselves; those who didn’t like a sports team until it won the Championship. They are doomed forever to chase an unattainable banner as they in turn are chased by wasps and other nasties as their putrescence from said stings falls onto more nasties. These Opportunists can never be named, nor classified. Therefore they’re in neither Heaven nor Hell.”

“But didn’t we just pass the Entrance to Hell?”

“Don’t be contrary, Dante.”

“Okay.”

As he led me further across the dark plain, I saw a v. large group of souls gathered at the bank of a river. “Ooo, Master, look there! Are they having a beach party?”

“A _beach party_ , Dante? They are standing at the side of the River Acheron.” He raised a somewhat cold eyebrow at me and made his way toward them. Chastised, I followed.

So here we are, waiting for something or someone, I suppose. These are not a happy bunch, let me tell you! Blaspheming this, that, and the other! Apparently they’re the newly dead, destined for the Nether Regions of this earth. V. unfriendly. At least I have my Virgil…

Wait! It seems some sort of water craft is approaching! My Master has now stood, and seems to wish to address the Ferryman. Boy, does he look creepy! More later.

 

Still Good Friday in the Year of Our Lord 1300

~Citadel of Human Reason~

What glory! What joy!

Er, as joyous and glorious as one can be without God. Yes.

Where did I leave off? Oh, now I remember! The Creepy Ferryman. His name is actually Charon. He’d be a lot less intimidating if his eyes weren’t surrounded by fire and his voice didn’t grate so negatively in the ears. Indeed, Charon not only yelled at the Damned, but at me as well!

“You cannot cross here! No! Not here! Elsewhere! How many times do I have to tell you?! Stupid mortal!”

How v. rude! Virgil told him off, however. “Thou hast not the power to deny the Will of Heaven,” or something of the sort. I was v. touched, but was so scared I fainted before I even stepped on the boat. Yes, fainted. Swooned. Passed out. Lost consciousness.

So sue me.

I blush to think of it, but the Wonder of what came after soothes me. When I woke I found that my Guide and I were not only across Acheron, but on the brink of a Great Abyss, otherwise and more simply known as Hell.

“It is time, Dante.” Virgil then led me on my first steps down (and a little to the left) into the First Circle of Hell. It was dark, and the air was full of the sounds of sighs so v. deep I knew their desire to be beyond sincere. The souls we passed just sat there and did nothing. So v., v. depressing.

Virgil, however, seemed a tad miffed. “Aren’t you curious about them at all? This is Limbo, the Circle to which I belong.” Before I could respond, he continued, “Here dwell those who are sinless, but were never baptized, all because the Son of God was not yet born.”

“Just because of timing? What tough luck. That doesn’t seem v. fair.”

“Indeed, Dante, _ita vero_.”

Just then a blinding flash of light (déjà vu!) filled the space and a Booming Announcer Voice, er, announced:

“Ladies and Gents of Limbo, your attention please! Now announcing the Prince of Poets! The Rhymer of Rome! The Hot Dude of Dactylic Hexameter! The one you’ve all been anxiously awaiting…heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere’s Virgil!”

And lo! And again, lo! Within, and indeed perhaps even giving off said brilliance, were four more of my precious writers! Homer, the Master of Long and V. Graphic Epic Poems! Horace, who taught all to Seize the Day! Ovid, the King of Lewd and Lascivious Stories! Lucan, the Poet Who Committed Suicide but is Still in a Reasonable Circle! How I adore them all!

Not as much as I adore God, of course. Ahem.

Here’s the most amazing part, however: they decided to let me hang with them! The Great Masters hailed me, “Hail Dante, he who shall also be known in posterity by merely one name! Join us!” And get this – I know you’ll never believe me – my Master smiled, shucking his token stoic facial expression!

How could I refuse?

We hopped, skipped and jumped over to the Bright and Shiny Citadel, which stands for (as they informed me with pride) the Epitome of Human Reason. “Wow,” I said in response. “You built it just with your intellect! V. impressive!”

“It’s the highest one can get without knowing the Light of God,” winked Ovid.

We entered – and here I am now – and it is v. snazzy, full of brooks and gardens and ancients galore! How I feel fulfilled!

Well…as fulfilled as possible without God. Really.

Oh, spaghettio. Virgil is motioning that it is time to continue our Journey. I don’t really want to see the rest of Hell…Well, I’ll tell you how it goes. Wish me luck!

 

Very Late Good Friday Evening in the Year of Our Lord 1300

~ The Gates of Dis~

So v. much has happened, but we have been traveling nonstop. My Guide is letting me relax now, well, because we must. Yet, I cannot describe this until I relate the rest!

I sighed and moaned inwardly, v. disappointed that we had to leave Limbo. However, the show must go on, and my Master dragged me away. We descended a ledge and were met by another crowd of souls, though this time we were all veiled in darkness – a theme that would continue after the brilliance of Reason. Those in the back were all whispering to each other, “Where in the Hell do you think you’re going?” etc. I didn’t understand, but once my eyes adjusted to the blackness I saw the object of the souls’ attention: Minos. He had a v. long tail, and was indicating with it how far each shade should descend.

“You look like a strong and mean fellow,” he drawled, wrapping himself snug as his tail coiled around himself seven times, “why don’t you go to Phlegethon? Hey,” – here his tail unwound a bit – “you there, Tubby, yes you, go to Circle Three. What was that you called me?” he asked, turning to another, “You’re off to the Malebolge. And you, you should – hey, where do you think you’re going?!”

This last, as you might have guessed, was addressed to me. My dear, dear Virgil had completely ignored the monster and was already leading me to the Second Circle. “Oh, shut up,” he dismissed.

Since that settled that matter (isn’t Virgil just great?!) we continued moving past the fiend Minos and were suddenly accosted by howling, of both wind and voice. Though my Guide remained unmoved, my tunic billowed and flapped against my stomach. Chaperon askew, I clung to my Master against the great gale that assailed us. “My Lord,” I shouted over the high winds, “what manner of sin is punished here?”

“Here dwell the souls who gave themselves over to passion,” Virgil conveyed without raising his sweet voice.

“Whatever do you mean?” I asked, getting dizzy from watching the souls swirl and swirl around in the tempest.

“They had too much sex, Dante, or else they put it above more important things.”

“How tragic!” I exclaimed. “It’s a good thing, then, that my dear Beatrice and I never consummated our True Love.”

“Quite,” Virgil agreed.

“So! Who’s here?” I eagerly queried.

“Well,” began my Teacher, “there is Dido, she who broke her vow to her husband as she fell in love with-”

“Aeneas! Yes, I know! I’ve read all of your works!”

“Yes, Dante. Now be quiet and listen. Do you see that sullen-looking shade with an impressive nose? That is Cleopatra, seducer of our countrymen. And do you see there? There are three from the Trojan War, about which Homer wrote one of his famous Long and V. Graphic Epic Poems. The effeminate one there is Paris, and the soul blown with him is that Greek tart Helen. The third one, there, is Achilles, who fell in love with Priam’s daughter, and was killed by aforementioned femmy shepherd boy.”

“Sorrow overwhelms me for them, for I know the pain of love. My pain seems matched by those two souls there, pitifully clinging to each other. Might I speak with them?”

“If you really want to,” my Master allowed.

“Oh Pitifully Clinging Souls! I intuitively knew you were Italian when I saw you, and knew therefore that I could hold a conversation with you! Come speak with me!”

Like puppies in want of attention, they swiftly came to my side. “I am Paolo,” began the male shade, “and she here is Francesca. She was married to my brother; that’s how we came to know each other.”

Francesca took up the narrative: “One day we began reading a steamy French novel together, with some hunk named Lancelot. We couldn’t help but act it out in real life!”

“And boy was my brother mad! Killed the two of us, he did!”

“Yes,” agreed Francesca. “And he bought a one-way ticket to Caïna for doing it, too!”

“Oh!” I cried out. “My heart weeps with such pity for your inability to distinguish fantasy from life.”

And, once again, I fainted.

When I awoke, I was in the third circle, lying in some sort of dirty slush. “Yech!” I quickly scrambled to my feet and tried to wipe off the freezing nastiness, but to no avail. “Master!” I shrieked.

“I am here,” my Dear Poet stoically intoned. “Welcome to the Third Circle of Darkness. Here are the Gluttons: those who ate incessantly, those who loved wine (and by that I don’t mean the kind from Church), and those who ordered one too many super-sized meals instead of eating regular portions. Their torment is to weather this storm.”

I can not express the ghastliness of _this_ storm! It was a blizzard, but a rather abnormal one, being that it was a v. foul and filthy kind of snow that was falling. Half-sunken in this unpleasant substance were the souls here damned. “How v. nasty! Master, I-” Just then, a silence was spread over the souls nearby. Slowly, ever so slowly, I peered over my shoulder, and what was behind me but a giant, three-headed dog?! “Eek!” Once more I clung to my Guide for protection.

“Stand back,” Virgil commanded, “and prepare to be v. impressed with my mad Roman skills.” With that, he made a large putrid snowball and hurled it at the ravenous beast. It caught him square in the mouth! Then he threw two more in quick succession, stopping up the other two maws. “The dog Cerberus is no match for me.”

“Indeed not!” I beamed.

“His station is to tear and pick at the souls here. It is-”

“SNOWBALL FIGHT!” a shade yelled, cutting off my Teacher. The Third Circle was then filled with the movement of the excited souls, who had apparently been impressed by Virgil’s fine show and were trying to emulate his excellent work.

“Well,” said my Master, unfazed and ever-stoic, “perhaps it is best that we continue on to the next Level of Torment.”

I nodded and followed, but before we could make our way completely across the putrid plain, a soul grabbed my foot. “Florentine! I am Ciacco, the Hog. Heh, figure that one out.”

“Could you just let my ankle-?”

“One moment! I just wanted to make you completely miserable by informing you that your party is going to be disbanded and Florence will fall into great sin at the hands of the Whites.”

“What?!” I exclaimed.

“Really,” continued the Hog, “it hurts me more than it hurts you.”

Though bound with a great pain for my noble city, I allowed my toga-clad Master to lead me down the slope to the next Circle, the Fourth. But blocking our path was a disgusting and bloated man, the so-called Plutus (as my Master later told me)!

“Satan is Pope, doobee doowa aleppe concha concha doopeedoo!” he gurgled.

“Off with your mad gibberish!” my Guide admonished him. “Don’t you know you’re speaking with a couple of poets, here?”

Ashamed, the monster backed away and suddenly a great vista was revealed to me. The scene I beheld was much like an organized war, for there were two distinct parties in play: on either side of this great plain were v. heavy and absolutely humongous boulders being pulled away from each other by two separate groups of souls, so dim I couldn’t make them out. “Who are they? What are they doing?” I wondered, utterly dumbfounded.

My Teacher began, “Those on the left were Hoarders. They saved up money like misers and refused to throw away the cheap toys found in crackerjack boxes. The shades on the opposite side were Wasters. Big spenders of money, they never hesitated to drop a dollar on whatever they saw fit. As for your other inquiry…wait and see.”

Finally, it seemed, both groups had reached the end of the Level and without explanation they turned and pushed the weights toward each other! CLANG! The masses collided, and the souls dragged them away again.

“How v. inane!” I marveled.

“As were the obsessions in their lifetimes,” agreed Virgil. “You won’t be able to speak with any of these souls, though I can tell you that many of them were members of the clergy. You’ll see plenty more of them in the Lower Circles. Meanwhile, shall we carry on?”

At the edge of this precipice we found a Black Spring, from which a Black River cascaded down into the next Circle. Along it we found a workable path, and my Guide explained to me, “We are now following the River Styx. It will soon become marshland, in which stew the souls of the Fifth Circle of the Dark Abyss.”

“And what is their crime?”

“Well, stop here and I will point them out to you.” We did so, and my gaze fell across vast wetlands, churning with frenzied movement. “The souls you see ripping and biting each other like something out of a Homeric Epic are the Wrathful. Obviously, they were v. angry. The bubbles discernable in the swamp where there are no souls visible are all that is left of the songs of the Sullen, who are buried beneath the slime.”

“Songs?” I queried. “What do they sing?”

“Suffice it to say, it isn’t _Joy to the World_.” Even at this small joke on my Master’s part, he would not crack a smile in his supreme stoicism. “Now look down there,” he commanded, pointing directly below us, “that is a Great Tower; it is a Great Lighthouse of Doom. There, we shall catch an Infernal Ferry which will take us across this muck.”

“Excellent!” You must sympathize with my great feeling on this matter; there was no need to dirty my clothing further.

Once we reached the tall black tower, a flame shot up from its summit. Through the mist of the bog another flame flickered in response, telling us that the Boatman was on his way. We didn’t have to wait long before a boat could be seen speeding toward us. The Steersman of said ship was yet another monster! And, just like all the others, he was unhappy to find a living man and a sinless pagan in Divine Grace.

“Whelps!” he cried, steam coming out of his ears.

“Oh Phlegyas, don’t be a spoilsport!” chided my Lord. “Give us a ride, will you?” Without waiting for a reply, he hopped aboard and motioned for me to do the same. Still miffed, Phlegyas began the rather bumpy trip to the other side. I say it was rough because we were driving over the wrathful souls, skinning their backs like hapless manatees. Suddenly one of the slimy wretches half-crawled onto the vessel and cried out to me for help. “Back with the other sinners!” ordered my Master, kicking him away.

“But I know him!” I realized. And that I did: could you believe that it was Filippo Argenti?! The swine and his family! Aloud I spat at him, “Damn you to Hell!” All the Wrathful stopped to look at me. A single bubble popped on the surface of the marsh as even Phlegyas turned to glare. “Er- I mean, may all the other souls that share your fate rip you to pieces!” As if on cue, many shades swarmed him and did just that, splattering soul-blood across the side of the boat. “That felt great!” I gushed, turning to my Guide for his reaction.

And what a reaction! He gave me a big smacker! “I’m so proud of you!”

I must admit that kiss made it all worth it. V. incredible, that Virgil.

I did not rejoice long, however, because a great mass of red iron loomed before us, growing ever bigger as we approached. “What Infernal City is this?”

“It is called Dis, and stands at the first true division of Hell,” my Teacher informed me.

“And a great lot of luck you’ll have there, too,” sneered Phlegyas, dumping us off.

“Pay no heed to him,” assured my Sweet Lord, as he saw how my face paled with fear. “Now I must talk to these guards.”

“You’re going to leave me alone?!” I whimpered, voice raising a few octaves. “Here?!”

“These fiendish guards are the Rebellious Angels, who would not fight on God’s side against Lucifer. They’re the biggest and most evil of all Hellish Baddies. You are not yet able to stand up to their Pure Wickedness.” And with that my Dear Guide, my Sea of All Intelligence, my World’s Best Master left me quaking in my leggings. I kept my eyes trained on him fearfully as he spoke with the fiends; they laughed at him and sent him back to the dock where I awaited him.

“They won’t let us pass?” I asked in a v. teeny voice.

Virgil shook his head. “But I’ll show them! Oh yes, I shall! I’m going to call for Divine Intervention!”

“Divine Intervention?” I echoed, momentarily fascinated and more than a little confused.

“Yes, Dante. There is a lesson to be learned here. Understand that Human Reason, which I represent, cannot face Pure Evil alone, and therefore must send for Divine Aid, which makes this entire trip possible.”

“But don’t some philosophers reason that ‘Evil’ is an abstract?”

“What did I say about being contrary, Dante?”

“Sorry, Master.”

And so here I am now, waiting with my Guide for said ‘Divine Aid.’ There isn’t really much to do being as we have the Wrathful beating each other in muck on one side and the Rebellious Angels blocking the Gates of Dis on the other. The sounds aren’t too pleasant either…screaming…tearing flesh…bubble choruses…snickers from the Wingéd Party Boys…Virgil sighing every three seconds as he waits for his Blessed Envoy…bird-like screeching…What!? I’d better –

Holy Hell! It’s Women-like Avian Entities! Virgil’s saying something about them being called Furies…And I can’t quite make out what they’re shouting? Are they trying to sic a Chief Baddie on me? Oh, now Virgil’s –

 

V. Early Holy Saturday Morning in the Year of Our Lord 1300

~The Tomb of Pope Anastasius~

Sorry about the abrupt stop, there. Virgil pounced me in an attempt to protect me from Medusa, whom the Furies had apparently been trying to summon.

To be honest, I don’t much care why he pounced me…

Anyway, the V. Formidable Heavenly Entity came (thankfully so, according to Virgil) and told off the Bad Angels and swung open the Gates of Dis at the mere flutter of a hand. He then left us as swiftly as he came, leaving the bogged squirming like worms in his wake.

Eager to experience the Sixth Circle of Hell, I sprinted through the gates to take in my new surroundings. This Level is a vast plain dotted with many gigantic tombs that are encased in fire. “And these here?” I asked, tugging on Virgil’s toga.

“The souls in these great tombs,” he started, gently pulling his robe from my hand, “are Heretics. They did not believe in the immortality of the soul.”

“Heh, they were really wrong, weren’t they?”

“Quite,” my Teacher nodded. “I will explain more as we cross these fiery fields.”

“Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnttttttttttttteeeeeeeeeeee!”

“EEK!” I screeched and held my Master close.

“Don’t be a fool, Dante,” he reprimanded, prying my grip loose. “A shade is addressing you – is that not the great Farinata degli Uberti?”

“Yes, it is I!” a v. majestic shade announced, rising out of one of the nearby tombs. “Do you not see how I shrink Hell with my v. defiance?”

“And sir, I shall address you most highly, though we are political enemies.”

“Speaking of which, I foresee that you shall be exiled.”

“Oh, spaghettio,” I sighed. “More bad news.”

My Guide comforted me, “Despair not, Dante. But come, we must be on our way.”

We then hurried along past the crypts of varying sizes and varying flame, and all the while I felt something nagging me. As we reached the edge of the Circle, it hit me- literally: the air was permeated by the most rank of smells. It was so v. fetid an aroma I was forced to bend over and dry heave for awhile.

“Are you quite finished?” asked my Master. “Ah, never mind. The smell _is_ terribly bad. This reek is the Stink of the Seventh Circle. We may rest here until you get used to it.” He sat himself down regally between the drop to the level and the last tomb and indicated that I should follow suit. “Come, we’ll have a picnic.”

“A picnic?” I asked, wrapping the fabric of my chaperon around my nose.

“Yes, we shall toast marshmallows. It will be most fitting to draw nourishment from the tomb of the Pope Anastasius, as he drew no nourishment from God in life. Come now.”

As I sat down next to him, I queried, “But my Lord, what is a marshmallow?”

“A marshmallow? A confection whose history began in Ancient Egypt. Of course, those made centuries from now taste much better.” He pulled a few white fluffy items out of the voluminous folds of his toga and handed some to me. “Once you toast them, they’ll be crunchy on the outside and gooey within, just like the souls that inhabit these burning sepulchers. Go ahead, try it.”

He also produced two long sticks from his robe, and handed one to me. Following my Teacher’s lead, I skewered two of the so-called ‘marshmallows’ and thrust them into the fire of the tomb. It cooked quite quickly, so we pulled them out without having to wait. I bit into the now brown sweet and tasted a food that I have never imagined! So gooey! So messy! So- “V. nummy!” I moaned appreciatively through a full mouth.

“I knew you’d like them,” Virgil smiled. “Now I feel obliged to teach you a song we, the Poets of Limbo, have composed about the Dark Abyss of Nothingness:

“Heretics roasting on an open fire  
Reptiles nipping at your nose  
Perverse carols being sung by the Sullen  
And Hypocrites dressed up in heavy cloaks

“Everybody knows some Reason and Philosophy  
Help to make the Circles bright  
But Charon with his eyes all aglow  
Will make it hard for souls to take flight

“They know that Satan’s had his way  
He’s holding lots of men and baddies in his sway  
And every mother’s child is going to cry  
To have ice shards stuck to each eye

“And so the Damned know it’s not just a phase  
The Flatterers are forever stuck in poo  
Although it’s been said to fib is okay  
A disease could consume you too.”

Alas, now the v. delightful marshmallows are gone, and my Master says that we must continue on our journey. Ciao!

 

Holy Saturday in the Year of Our Lord 1300

~On the Brink of the Waterfall~

How quickly was my good mood from marshmallows to turn!

We reached the start of the long descent into the Seventh Circle of Hell, but the passage was blocked by the Minotaur, half-man, half-bull!

“Leave this to me,” whispered my Lord. Aloud, he addressed the Bullman, “And what is your reasoning on blocking our way, brute? Oaf? Idiot?”

The Minotaur grunted and scratched his nose.

“V. well, then. Do you force me to send for...the Matador?”

Screaming bullishly, the beast came at my Master, but missed. Quickly we ran past him and climbed down the rocky slope. Below us a Roiling Red River flowed through the uneven landscape. Suddenly we heard a whirring, and an Unidentified Flying Object passed through the soul of my Guide.

“Good God! Are you all right, my Lord?” I asked anxiously.

“Of course, Dante. It was only a warning shot,” he replied, emotionless as ever.

“By whom?”

“It was an arrow of the Centaurs,” and as he explained this, he pointed to three creatures galloping toward us. “They’re here to make sure the souls in the First Round of the Seventh Circle do not escape.”

“Another step closer and I shoot!” shouted one of the equine men, beard wild and chest hairy.

“Hold, Nessus. I wish to speak with your leader, Chiron, Famed Teacher of Various Ancient Heroes,” my Master informed him.

Another Centaur, slightly less hairy, came to the fore. “And what does Virgil ask of a Centaur? More importantly, who is with you?”

“He is Dante Alighieri, who is now a v. good poet, and will soon become a great one. He is alive, and by charge of a Higher Power I must show him all of Hell. Therefore, I ask you if we may ride horsy-back across the River Phlegethon.”

“Ah. V. well, then. Such work is below me, however. Nessus, you can take them.”

“But sir,” Nessus began in protest.

“Just do it.” And that was Chiron’s final word.

Nessus snorted and turned to the side so we could more easily mount his back. “I am no beast of burden,” the Centaur said with a slight pout in his voice, “and therefore have no tack. Instead of reins, then, you may cling to my abundant curly chest hair, which matches my coat beautifully, I might add.”

So, Virgil held on to Nessus’s nappy chest and I held onto my Lord as the Centaur turned my attention to the souls, whom I had not noticed before. “These shades,” he commented, “were mean to people. Of course, in my opinion, some people _should_ be-”

My Teacher interrupted him before he could continue sharing his opinion, and carried on with the idea at hand: “As our good Nessus said, these souls were v. naughty when it came to dealing with other people; they lived their lives by the sword.”

“And the bow, and the knife, and the axe, and the cheese log-”

“Indeed, Nessus,” said Virgil, again cutting off the Centaur. “Do you see that toupee-like blackness floating upon the Blood? That is the top of the head of Alexander the Great.”

“Why is he considered a tyrant and not a Warrior of God?” I asked.

“As an Italian, how could you ask that?” my Master responded. “And I, a Roman, myself detest the endeavors of Alexander; imagine the rest of the known world taking Greek culture and adapting it into their own so the two become quite nearly indistinguishable. Preposterous.”

Nessus again snorted, voicing his disagreement.

I, in a rare moment of sagacity, did not offer comment.

The three of us traveled along the deep end of the River Phlegethon for awhile and my Master continued naming shades that wallowed there, including Attila the Hun, and the lesser known Ikilla the Hen. Finally, we reached a spot along the bank that suited Nessus for the crossing. While we made v. sure our grip was tight on his hair, the Centaur nimbly trotted across the Boiling Brook of Blood by stepping on the heads of those standing only neck-deep. Once we were safe on the other side, Nessus left without so much as a by-your-leave.

When I turned around then to see what lay ahead, I nearly fainted again: “Oh, dear Virgil, we have gone back to the beginning!”

“These are not the Woods of Error, though the souls here certainly made enough of them in their lifetimes,” corrected my Nearly-omniscient Guide. “These are the Woods of Suicides.”

As he began to lead me through the close, gnarled trees and the tangled undergrowth, I looked around for the Torment. Yet, there weren’t any souls to be seen. All that could be discerned was the sound of harpies tussling in the highest boughs of the trees. “Master, where are the souls?”

“Those that killed themselves are all around us and those that destroyed their own belongings are playing Hide and Seek.”

“But I don’t see-” At that v. moment, I tripped over a twisted root and grabbed the nearest branch to steady myself. Unfortunately, it was not a branch but a twig, and snapped the moment my weight pulled it down. This resulted in two things: my falling and the further ruin of my clothing from the classic combination of mud and blood. Yet, it was not my blood, for it was rudely being poured on the top of my new chaperon!

“Dante, you should watch where you’re going,” chided Virgil as he helped me to stand.

“Yes, watch where you’re going!” yelled another voice.

I looked around wildly for the source, and realized that it was coming from up above; every syllable uttered sprayed more blood droplets onto my face.

“But I guess it’s my fault, really, I never could do anything right. I mean, I really shouldn’t be standing here; I should never have rooted here, I should move, really. _O, me miserum_ …all I wanted was- oh, no one cares what I want! No one ever cared! No one ever cared! No one- Hey! Wait! Don’t go away! I want to tell you my entire and v. woeful life story! Come back! Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” (A stream of blood came shooting out of the tree).

“That was v. disturbing,” I opined after my Master and I gave the tree-soul the slip. I took the long cloth of my chaperon and wiped the blood off my face.

“As you may have been able to tell, the souls of those who commit suicide are turned into trees in which the harpies nest, loathsome creatures as they are. And- oh. Step aside, Dante.”

My Master pulled me toward him and a couple disheveled souls came crashing by (“Excuse me, pardon me, out of the way, there!”), obviously being chased by something. The answer as to what was immediately made apparent as a pack of baying Hell Hounds came bounding after them. “They think we have treats in our pockets!” a spirit yelled back at us as he disappeared into the darkness of the forest. A moment later we heard a crash and a scream.

“Did the hounds catch him?!” I asked.

“Yes, it’s the fate of all who destroyed their own property, a rather pointless practice. Don’t you hear the sounds of tearing flesh and chomping maw? No matter; we’ve now reached the edge of the Suicide Woods. Behold, now, the Plain of Burning Sands.”

The desert plain stretched as far as I could see, the barren landscape disturbed only by the course of the River Phlegethon and the Rain of Fire that descended from the black sky. All in all, v. hot and v. desolate.

“What do you think?” inquired Virgil.

“Well, it _is_ v. hot,” I replied.

“Ooo,” another voice came in mockingly, “Brilliant observation!”

“You’re just bitter, Capaneus!” yelled Virgil (yes, yelled!).

“Oh am I? Watch me! I have my face on the Burning Sand! Ooo! Such a pain!” the damned giant yelled.

“It’s your own fault!” rejoined my Master, who gave the prostrate soul a kick for good measure. Drawing me away he explained to me, “Dante, that was Capaneus, a Blasphemer Against God. He can’t handle the fact that God is, well, God. He and his ilk are doomed forever to lie upon the Burning Sands as the Burning Rain falls on them from above.”

Walking along the bank of the Blood River (where we were safe from both types of Fire), Virgil went on to enlighten me about who else resided in the Third Round of the Seventh Circle, the Circle of the Violent. In this Round, besides being Violent Against God, there were also those who were Violent Against Nature and Violent Against Art (or in Hell Slang, the Perverts and the Rip-off Artists). The former’s punishment is to run constantly and the latter’s to crouch and stare at purses for all eternity. Just as he completed his lesson, another voice greeted me:

“Dante Alighieri!” he called, gripping my leg.

“Ser Brunetto!” I jumped in surprise. “My, I didn’t recognize you with that tan!”

He remained jogging next to the Blood Bank as he related his piece. “Yes, yes, but listen, Dante. It gives me the v. greatest of sorrow, but I feel as a fellow writer I must inform you that you shall suffer terribly in the years to come!”

I sighed, “I appreciate your concern, but I’ve been told such twice already. It’s kind of lost its effect.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry.”

“No, quite all right. I’ll just keep on running, then.”

“I miss you!” I called after him. Brunetto waved in response.

“Ah,” said my Guide, who had remained quiet during the previous exchange. “Do you now hear that noise?”

I did, in fact, but I didn’t know its nature. “Is it the sound of V. Imminent Doom?”

“That it is not. It is the sound of a waterfall; the Bloody River falls into the Eighth Circle of Hell, which is, of course, our next destination. I should also note that this is another division of Hell: we’re going from the Worse Sinners to the Worst Sinners.”

“How will we get down there?” I wondered as we neared the edge. Indeed, I could see steam and blood bubbles rising into the air.

“The cord around your waist,” replied my Lord matter-of-factly.

“Will it be long enough?”

“No, no, Dante. Just give it to me, and I will take care of it.” I did as I was told and he took the cord and threw it over into the Void in which the Blood gushed.

“Hey, I’ll have you know that that was a v. expensive accessory, and a good one at that! It’s a common misconception that everyone on the Italian peninsula can accessorize, but- EEK!”

A large Unidentifiable Mass was looming toward us out of the Darkness. I hid behind the Roman and peered over his shoulder. “Fear not, Dante,” he soothed. “It is Geryon, Guardian of the Eighth Circle. By using your cord I have summoned him.”

“Another monster?!” I shrieked.

My Lord sighed. “V. well, you may go and hang out with those souls on the edge of the Fiery Desert over there, and I will haggle alone.”

I didn’t need a second bidding; I scuttled off in the direction my Master had indicated. The souls about which he’d been speaking were v. obviously Rip-off Artists, for they were crouched and huddling together, staring at something around their necks.

“Interesting necklaces, you have there,” I remarked, in hopes of starting a conversation.

“Necklaces?” questioned one a tad irritably, though he could not look at me, “Do we look like Perverts? These are purses!”

“I prefer the term money bag,” piped up another.

“Yeah, a fat lot of good money did us.”

“Well, that’s what we get for being Usurers.”

“I know what I was!”

“We sure made a lot of money.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Yes it is.”

Huh, let me tell you, their conversation isn’t v. interesting. It’s all money this, and banking that. I wish my dear Virgil would hurry up…I miss him…

 

Later, But Still Holy Saturday Morning in the Year of Our Lord 1300

~Hiding from the Grotesque Gargoyles of Pitch~

Let me tell you, the Eighth Circle is v., v., scary. But I should, as always, organize my thoughts. So here it is:

Soon after I ended my last entry, my Master called me to him, already mounted upon the hideous monster that is Geryon. Said fiend had the head of a man, the torso of a reptile, the arms of some hairy beast, and the stinger of a scorpion. I was about to exclaim my astonishment (“My, are you a science experiment gone wrong!”), but was prevented from doing so by a sharp look from my Guide. I then was forced to mount the thing in front of my Boon Companion, who wrapped his arms around me in order to keep me from falling. Surprisingly, our descent was rather peaceful. Little was I to know that it was the last tranquility before the storm…

Alas, I digress.

Once Geryon flew away (also without saying a word) my Master directed my gaze toward this Circle. “This, the Eighth Section of Hell, is better known as the Malebolge. It is divided into ten different Bolge which each contain separate punishments for separate crimes, though all have in common the main Sin, which is Fraud with a dash of Malice.”

“That sounds v. complicated,” I thought aloud.

“Yes,” agreed Virgil, “it seems to be an added torment.” Leading me to the bridge that went over the first of the Ten Pits, he explained, “Here are the Panderers and Seducers, or in Hell Slang, Pimps and Whores. Each group is driven in opposite directions at a fast walk, and if they stop or go too slow, a demon whips them back in line.”

“Hm,” I wondered, “what if they’re into whipping?”

“Dante!” cried Virgil, “Are you…a Pervert?”

“Brunetto told me, I swear!” I hurriedly assured him. I then quickly asked, “Who are among these damned souls?”

“Venedico Caccianemico, from Bologna. There are many Bolognesi here, which you may find amusing on some level. More noteworthy is Jason, who abandoned Hypsipyle to Single Parenthood.”

“Men can be quite insecure, can’t they?”

“ _Ita vero,_ Dante,” agreed my Guide. “Now let us move on to the next Bolgia.”

Standing on the next bridge, I was again overcome by a horrible stench, for the souls below me were stewing in Human Excrement. “It’s so v. nauseating!”

“Yes, I find it so as well,” Virgil replied. “I shall stop only to tell you that these here are the Flatterers; so they told crap in life, they have it now in death. Among these, souls you might recognize are Alessio Interminelli da Lucca (of the White Party) and Thaïs, who said ‘Hugely’ when ‘Okay’ would have been prudent. Let’s carry on, shall we?”

“Yes, please.” My answer was muffled as I was again hiding behind my chaperon.

At the peak of the next bridge we got an excellent view of those tormented in the Third Bolgia. The souls were propped upside down in what seemed to be perversions of baptismal fonts; the soles of their feet were also on fire, the strength of which depended upon the severity of their crime.

“The souls with their soles set afire are Simoniacs, or Clergymen who abused their position in the Church by selling ecclesiastical favors.”

“The v. horridness of it all! Do _I_ have something to say to them, or do I have something to _say_?!”

Virgil raised an eyebrow. “You wish to speak with one of them? V. well, I will take you down the slope into the pit to speak with the one with the biggest flames. Come, you may ride horsy-back, as we did with Nessus.”

I hopped on his back and Virgil moved down the steep sides of the Bolgia as if it were nothing. He then set me down and led me to a pair of legs that were, indeed, kicking the most violently.

“Who are you?” I asked, at my Teacher’s prompting.

“Ah, finally! I won’t be on fire anymore! I can finally descend into the depths of this crevice, you stupid idiot, Boniface,” the soul responded from inside the font.

“Boniface?” No need to say, I was thoroughly confused.

“He thinks you are the current and corrupt Pope,” Virgil clarified. “You are speaking with Pope Nicholas III.”

“Indeed so?” I then turned back to the soul and his burning soles and told him, “You’re the idiot! How could you demean the Church like that? Did Jesus ask for money? No! Did Jesus do ANYTHING that you did? NO! You now how bad you are?! You’re- you’re like spaghetti that’s been cooked past _al dente_ , that’s how bad you are! And, as an extra showing of my disdain for you and your ilk, I’ll- I’ll- I’ll tickle your feet!”

You better believe I did! That Bad Pope got the Fire, and the Tickle. Boy, was my Guide proud!

“You’re learning, Dante! Now hop back on.”

Once we reached the top of the slope, he set me back down and we walked to the center of the bridge that overlooked the Fourth Bolgia. Here, my righteousness turned to pity. Oh, the horror! These shades’ heads sat backwards upon their shoulders, so that they were looking down on their v. buttocks! Not only that, but they were walking backwards, and blinded by the tears that stung their eyes. It was so hideous, their bodies so distorted, that I began to cry as well. “Oh, how v. awful!” I moaned.

“Awful?!” shouted Virgil (that was scary). “These are Diviners, petty Fortune Tellers. Don’t question the judgment of God, it is arrogant! Besides, why pity those who made their living by taking people’s money at fairs? And that Tiresias, he’s a Pervert, too, being as he lived part of his life as both a man and a woman. Let’s move on. As we do so, I will tell you an irrelevant story about the founding of my hometown, Mantua.”

Thus talking, we reached the bridge over the Fifth Pit, but Virgil halted me and prevented our crossing. “Wait here,” he ordered. “This Bolgia is reserved for Grafters. Do you see the extreme darkness of this Pit? That’s because the souls are immersed in Pitch. We cannot cross yet for large and v. nasty demons called the Malabranche guard it in case any shade attempts escape. They are v. evil and v. crude, and will harm you without thinking twice. Since I cannot have that, hide here, and I shall barter with them.”

My Master and Lord is speaking with them now; they look at him with menacing grins and stroke their Spikes and Hooks. I fear for him, though he has not yet led me astray. I do not see a way out of this mess (much like those Bribed Souls in the Pitch).

 

Holy Saturday Yet Again in the Year of Our Lord 1300

~The Titan Well~

Like when I left off, my Guide is again embroiled in a discussion with a creature and bartering our safe passage. Yet back to the Demons:

Finally my Master motioned for me to come join him. Immediately the Demons that were near began to make fun of me:

“Oh, let’s tear him a new one!”

“Look at his funny little hat!”

I yelled back, “It’s a chaperon!”

“Oh, let me take a shot!”

“SILENCE!” shouted the leader of the Demons, called Malacoda. The Gargoyle-types stopped their teasing, but kept winking at me suggestively, weapons in hand. “We must grant them safe passage, but the bridge over the Sixth Pit is down.”

“Due to the Earthquake created when Christ died,” Virgil whispered to me in clarification.

Malacoda went on, “We’ll send you an escort along this Pit until you reach the next bridge. Stinkbreath! Pusface! Lopsided! Sausagefingers! Fannypack! Go with them.”

The called-for all grumbled unhappily, but one of them (Sausagefingers, probably, by the size of his hands) grunted and motioned for us to follow. But before we set off, he bent over and ripped the largest one I’ve ever heard in my life! Honestly! It was v. disgusting! “Sorry,” he rumbled, patting his large belly, “I had too many bean burritos for lunch.” All of the other Demons shook their heads, and we took off.

After walking in the vile presence of the Beasts for sometime, we noticed that souls actually came up to take breathers until they saw the approach of the demons, upon which they’d duck back underneath to avoid their grappling hooks, etc. Unfortunately for one, however, a soul was too slow and was dragged out of the pitch to be beaten.

“Allow me to fart in your face!” grinned Sausagefingers, who then immediately did so.

“A moment!” cried my Guide before the Gargoyle-types could rip the shade to pieces. “Who are you?”

“That doesn’t matter. I’m just a dirty Spaniard. Hey, Demon!” The soul turned to address Fannypack. “If you let me go for a second I’ll get other souls up here for you to torment.”

“Derrrrrrrrrrr…” Fannypack weighed the situation. “Okay.”

Upon his release, the Spaniard giggled and yelled, “Run, run, as fast as you can! You can’t catch me, I’m Grafter Man!” He then jumped back into the Pitch, escaping the claws of the Guards.

“FANNYPACK!” the other Demons yelled, and immediately set upon him.

“Well,” said Virgil. “Perhaps it would be prudent to now leave their company.”

I, who had been on the verge of wetting my leggings, was very pleased to hear it.

Therefore, Virgil again bore me upon him horsy-back, and he scaled the wall and, being as there was no bridge, inevitably slid to the bottom of the next Pit.

The Sixth Bolgia was full of souls wearing v. gorgeous clothing that resembled the habit of a friar. They were, however, walking v. slowly and laboriously. “What’s going on here?” I asked my Teacher.

“What’s going on, he asks? Did you here that, Catalano?”

“That I did, Loderingo, that I did. I’ll tell you, fellow Italian. We’re Hypocrites. Jovial Friars, we were, but didn’t really perform our duty in private.”

“You’ll also find here those who…well…I guess we’re mostly clergy and politicians,” added his companion.

“But why do you walk so sluggishly in such beautiful robes?” I questioned.

“Beautiful cloaks, he says?”

“Ha! These may seem so on the outside, but are made of nothing but lead.”

“We can’t move any faster, honestly.”

“But there’s another who can’t move at all.”

“He’s Caiaphas.”

“Helped to crucify Christ, you know, in the name of public good.”

“Yeah, look where it got him!”

And so I did: Caiaphas was crucified, but to the ground, where all the Hypocrites could walk upon him. I was about to comment, when Virgil asked the Friars, “And how far is the nearest bridge?”

“Nearest bridge, he says? Why, all of the bridges collapsed in the Earthquake!”

“What?” My Virgil, my dear, normally stoic Virgil, turned pink with concealed rage. “So the filthy Malacoda lied to me…”

“Haha! He believed a Demon!”

My Master made his eyes into slits and stared at the Friars, who immediately turned their gazes. “Come, Dante,” he commanded. “We shall merely climb to the next Bolgia.”

And so it was that we stood on the brink of the Seventh Pit, that of the Thieves. “These souls were once v. stealthy,” my Guide told me, “but no more.”

The Purloiners are in a Pit full of reptiles, which attack them, bind their hands, and then bite them, making the Pilferers burst into flames and rise painfully like the Phoenix from his ashes. Also, some reptiles were actually the souls of Stealers, and when they bit a soul in human-form, they regained their own. So, in effect, they’re going to be Snatching forever. “Find me an Italian!” I asked eagerly.

“You there,” Virgil pointed at a rather ugly man, “what is your name?”

“Ah, you meanie! I cannot lie to you, I am Vanni Fucci. And out of spite, I’m going to utter a Dark Prophecy! Florence will fall to the Whites and all there shall suck!”

“You’re the fourth to utter such a Prophecy,” I informed him.

“Aw, really? Well, up yours for taking that away from me, God!” And completely on cue, he was set upon by a pack (herd? gaggle?) of reptiles, which tore him to pieces.

“Excellent,” I commented. Virgil nodded in agreement and we proceeded to the next Ditch.

Unlike most of the other Bolge, this one was lit up quite brightly by giant flames. “The souls of this Pit, that of the Evil Counselors, are encased in Tongues of Flame. So their tongues danced prettily in life, they dance prettily in tongues for Eternity. A v. infamous person resides here: Ulysses.”

“Ulysses! Oh, may I speak with him?!” I gushed.

“Of course, my Pupil,” my Master consented. “But allow me to speak, he does not know you and will more likely respect me, because I am Roman. Greek! Ulysses!” he called. “Speak with me.”

“My name is not Ulysses, it’s Odysseus!” one part of a giant, two-pronged flame shouted. “Don’t you agree, Diomede?” it asked the other half.

“Just tell me your story,” my Master said.

The fire-tongue stilled as Odysseus told his tale: “Well, here it is. You won’t find it in Homer, or Legend. I got back from my odyssey and later set out upon another. I sailed all the way to Mount Purgatory. God wasn’t happy. He smote my crew and me. The end.”

“V. intriguing!” I told him appreciatively.

“Thank you, Ulysses,” nodded my Guide.

As the Pronged Tongue of Odysseus and Diomede danced away, so we stepped lively to examine the contents of the Ninth Bolgia. Peering down, I quite nearly gagged at the sight. All of the souls within this Ditch were hideously mutilated in myriad ways: an arm off here, a leg off there, an ear, a nose.

“It may seem v. awful to you, Dante, but see that it does not upset you,” my Teacher cautioned. “For these are the Sowers of Discord, and much like fruit they come in all shapes, sizes, and tastes. Among these are the Schismatics, those who created dissension within governments, the souls that split up families, suburban gossipers, and that bully who likes to pick fights on the playground. A Gigantic Demon well-versed in the ways of fencing, samurai, and other manners of swordplay slashes them according to their guilt. They are then forced to walk severely mutilated, but they heal by the time they again reach the Demon, who does not hesitate to inflict the same wound.”

“Who is that one, there?” I queried, gesturing toward a shade that had been split from his chin to his nether region.

“I am Mahomet,” the soul himself answered. “Now if you’ll excuse me, my intestines are unraveling, _again_! Do you have any idea how long they are? If you count the two together, they can be anywhere from seven and a half to nine and a half meters long! That’s almost five times the height of a man. I’ve tripped over them so many times…”

“Oh, don’t listen to him,” came another voice from within the Pit.

My gaze was drawn to a soul, yet all that was upon its shoulders was the bleeding stump of the neck, with a little white spine glistening in the center. “How do you speak?”

“Well, you’re not looking at my face, are you? Weren’t you ever taught manners? It’s called eye contact, you know.” With that, the arm of the wraith lifted, grasping the hair of a severed head in its hand! “See?”

“Uh, Virgil,” I stammered, tugging on his toga. “This is v. creepy!”

“I rather think it looks like something out of a B-rate zombie film,” he replied thoughtfully.

“A what, Lord?” I asked.

“Never mind, Dante. It is noon, now, and there is still much to observe. Let’s move along: here is the Tenth and Last Bolgia, that of the Falsifiers.”

I jogged up the bridge behind him, and when I reached the top of the arch I saw the souls and could only stare. The shades here were afflicted by all manner of ailments; some writhed in pain, some sprinted around attacking other souls like rabid beasts, others were stiff and could only lie there. The colors, too, were many: greens, blues, reds, oranges, yellows. Every kind of pus and goo was seeping out of every pore and orifice, and some souls were so disfigured by their respective diseases that they looked like lumps of rancid meat. The smell, on the other hand…no adjective could be derogatory enough.

“Every manner of Liar and Deceiver are contained here,” my Guide began. “The souls you see covered in scabs so flaky and peeling that they look like fish scales are the Alchemists. The ones who go about wildly raving are the Impersonators, such as Myrrha, who disguised herself in order to indulge her v. own Electra Complex. Oh, there she is!”

Indeed, a ravening soul shrieking madly came and actually bit one of the Alchemists, and dragged him along the coarse bottom of the Bolgia. “Mmm,” she said. “Tastes like carp.”

Another soul nearby seemed to be struggling to move, but could only wiggle an arm, for his body retained so much water he looked pregnant with quintuplets. “You up there, how come you’re not being punished?” he asked in a parched voice.

“I have Divine Leave,” I answered. “But what was your crime that your belly is so swollen and body distorted?”

“Master Adam’s the name; Counterfeiting’s the game. I’m incredibly thirsty, you wouldn’t happen to have any water on you, would you?”

Before I could reply, another voice intervened, “Bugger off, Adam!”

I found the source; it was a diseased shade right next to the Counterfeiter. He was red and sickly, and steam rose from him, even in this hot muck. “And who are you?”

“Not telling!” he yelled stubbornly.

“Hmph!” grunted Master Adam. “That’s Sinon, who convinced the Trojans to take in the Greek Horse. He’s a Verbal Liar.”

“Shut up, you! I can’t believe you just told them!” The feverish shade smacked the bloated stomach of his neighbor.

“Hey! I have one limb left that still moves!” The Counterfeiter returned a blow in kind.

Sinon growled, “You’ll pay for that!”

“What are you going to do, sweat on me?”

“Well, what are _you_ going to do, _sit_ on me?”

This argument went on for some time, and I remained transfixed, v. fascinated.

Finally, my Master lost his patience. “Dante Alighieri! What is your problem? I can’t believe you’re holding us back to watch this. It’s as bad as watching Reality TV! Well, all right, maybe not _as_ bad, but still, this is a v. crude form of entertainment, and I’m v. disappointed in you.”

The reprimand tore me so down that I thought I’d never smile again. “My most obsequious apologies, my Lord! I did not mean to sink so low.” I couldn’t even weep I was so ashamed.

“Oh, I forgive you Dante. But don’t do it again. Come, we make for the Central Pit of the Malebolge and the entrance to Cocytus, the Final Circle of Hell.”

After walking for a long while, I began to make out another great city looming in the distance. “And what place is this?”

“Place, Dante? No, those which you mistake for towers are Giants,” corrected my Guide. “They are the assigned Guards of Cocytus.”

“We- we must go past Giants?” I clung to his hand.

“Yes,” he answered stoically. “Therefore you must be on your best behavior; we need not anger them.”

Thankfully my Master did not pull away; I remained holding his hand as we drew ever nearer to the Titans, who could have been great towers for the height they stood above us. The first we approached wore a large horn around his neck and a vacant expression. When he caught sight of us, he said, “Ratta tatta koochie koo!” and then gave an earsplitting toot on his horn.

“Ah yes,” Virgil spoke to me under his breath, “This is Nimrod, a…Special Titan. He tried building the Tower of Babel, and the nonsense he speaks is his punishment.”

“Badda hawo!” Nimrod grinned dumbly down at us. “Hoowah poot da bomp in da bomp sha bomp she bomp? Hey daddy ding dong a lang a lang a lang a lang a boop sha do, waoo waoo waoooOOOooo!”

Quickly we jogged away, and past the next Titan, who growled evilly at us but was in chains, until we reached a third Giant, who was neither dumb nor constrained. “This is Antaeus, and I will now speak with him.”

So now that I have come full circle (pun unintended), I wait here as Virgil convinces this Titan of our need. Then, and only then, will I be able to experience the Ninth Circle…

 

Dawn of Easter Sunday in the Year of Our Lord 1300

~The Base of Mount Purgatory~

Oh, the sky, dear Starlight, dear Sunrise! After the Long Dark of Hell, there is no happier sight. But first I must relay the rest of my Infernal Journey:

The Giant Antaeus, it turns out, is a rather gentle creature. “I’m just misunderstood,” he informed my Master and me as he lowered us to the ground in his palm, “but sometimes I can’t help those Bestial Urges, you know?”

“Of course. We thank you,” Virgil told him. “Now watch your step, Dante.”

In response I looked down, and to my horror I saw that we were standing on ice, and within it were buried hundreds of souls! Those nearest us had their heads and necks above the ice, but that was all. “Who are these?” I inquired, awestruck and shivering with the cold.

“These souls,” my Guide dictated, “are guilty of Treachery; the ones in front of you betrayed their own kin. This Round is called Caïna, after Cain who killed Abel. Look there, at those two: they are stuck together. They’re Italians, Alessandro and Napoleone of Mangona. They died in a sibling fight gone wrong.”

“Just because we’re down here doesn’t mean we can’t hear you!” one of the brothers shouted.

“What did you say?” asked another soul nearby who had lost his ears to frostbite.

“Oh, never mind.”

My Guide and I glided further down the ice, he in his sandals and I in my shoes, until the heads of the souls sunk so low that they could not turn their heads. “We’re now in Antenora, where dwell the Treacherous to Country. They-”

I did not hear the rest of my Master’s teaching, for I tripped and nearly fell over one of the heads. “What’s the big idea?!” it cried.

“There isn’t one,” I answered. “But you’re Italian! Who are you?”

“Nope, I’m not telling!”

“Not again!” I said, thinking of Sinon back in the Malebolge who had also refused. “If you don’t tell me I’ll rip out all of your hair!”

“No.”

“Including your eyelashes!”

“No.”

“Then so be it!” I began ripping out his hair as my Master stoically looked on.

“Don’t bother!” called out another soul, similarly encased. “Don’t you realize we’re all so numb he can’t feel it?” Incensed, I nearly turned on him, so he quickly said, “Bocca degli Abbati! That’s his name!”

“Ah! Thank you,” I declared, pleased.

“Then let us move on,” guided my Master.

Before we moved far, however, I saw another pair of souls stuck together, except this time one ripped and gnawed at the cold flesh of the other.

V. disgusted, I asked mockingly, “Taste good?”

The eating soul flicked his eyes in my direction, nibbled on the hair of his companion to get the blood out of his mouth, and then simply said, “Yes.”

“Oh.”

To avoid further delay, my Master pulled my arm and we slid further across the ice, twisting and turning between the heads like a slalom race. Eventually the souls between which we were skating were buried up to their ears (but facing upward), and I wondered at their fate. “Whom have these souls betrayed?”

“These souls in Ptolomea are guilty of Guest-Host Treachery. They may have murdered their host; some have hoodwinked their guests; and some served expired dormice at their banquets. Notice, also, that they are unable to shield their eyes from this cold wind, and so their tears freeze and cover their eyes, preventing them from crying evermore.”

“Yes, but you could change that, sir!” begged a soul, whose voice was distorted by the numbness of his lips, as if he’d come straight from the dentist. “I’m Friar Alberigo! Cover my eyes from the wind, and I’ll tell you anything you want to know!”

“What is the capital of Assyria?” I asked without thinking. It’s something I’ve always wondered, really.

“I can’t tell you that,” the soul admitted, “but you’re Italian- I know another who is here. He goes by the name of Branca d’Oria.”

“Impossible!” I dismissed. “He is still alive.”

“Oh, his body is, to be sure. But once he killed his father-in-law, he plummeted straight here, as befalls us all after the crime is committed. Our bodies on Earth, then, are inhabited by Hellish Demons. It all happens v. fast, you know. One moment I was sitting pretty, and the next I was sitting here.”

“Hm,” I commented. “I thought it was strange that Branca recently declared himself a goddess and wore a banana on his head.”

“No more time for chatter,” insisted my Guide. “We must reach the Center of the Great Dark Abyss through which we have long traveled.”

“Of course!” I replied and we glided away.

“Wait! What about me?” the Friar called. “Oh, drat.”

After we had slid for some time, Virgil directed my gaze to the ground and I gasped: the souls were now completely under the ice! And in all manner of positions, too: lying down, sitting up, spread-eagled, doing splits, and even mooning any who chanced to walk above them!

“And these?!”

“These souls here in Judecca are ones who questioned the system, couldn’t take orders, and Damned the Man. In other words, they were Treacherous to Their Masters. Obviously, we cannot speak with them. They are not important anyway- _they_ are all you need to see.”

At these words my gaze traced the line of his finger, and I nearly wet myself! (In retrospect, it is doubly good I did not for it would have frozen.) In the distance stood the Biggest Baddie of All:

SATAN!

I tremble at the v. memory.

Stuck in the ice up to his navel, his three sets of wings waved wildly in his attempt to escape, creating the cold wind that froze Cocytus. Upon his shoulders was not one head, but three, in a perversion of the Holy Trinity. The left head was black, the right a sickly white, and the middle, a flaming red. Yet, that was not the worst of all: in his three gaping maws he chewed three souls; the two on either side feet-first, the one in the red mouth was in headfirst.

In answer to the unspoken question, Virgil said, “Those souls he is eating without digestion are Brutus and Cassius, who betrayed our countryman Julius Caesar, and in the middle is tormented Judas Iscariot, of Gospel fame.”

After taking in this horror, all I could think to ask was, “Why doesn’t he spit them out?”

“Well,” thought my Teacher, “he doesn’t have much else to do down here, does he?”

“I suppose not.”

“You have seen all of Hell, Dante. Now, it is time to resurface.” In so saying, he began to lead me closer to Hell’s Angel.

“Oh, yes, um, I’d rather not go any nearer to him, if it’s all the same!” I protested, but to no avail; my Guide had grabbed my hand and I slid along behind him, no matter how much I resisted.

“Would you feel better if you rode horsy-back?” he asked gently.

“That’s not necess-…well, yes I would.”

So I hopped on his back and he skated toward Satan, who eyed him but could do nothing in his current state. Then, to my utter surprise, my Master latched onto Satan’s navel hair, and by burrowing into it, got onto his leg hair, past the ice!

“Uggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhh!” Satan growled. Then, “Kchhhhhyerck!”

As we crawled down further, I dimly heard Cassius ask in alarm, “What’s going on?”

“Oh,” answered Brutus. “Satan’s choked on Judas again.”

Eventually I could hear them no longer, and when I turned my attention back to my Master’s actions, I was surprised to find that instead of going down, we were climbing up! “My Sweet Guide!”

“Don’t be alarmed,” Virgil responded. “We have just passed the Center of the Earth. From here we can make our way up the River Lethe, which will lead us to Sky, and Mount Purgatory.”

We dismounted from Satan’s legs, and I looked at them sticking up stiffly in the air. “The Devil has v. hairy legs, doesn’t he?”

“What do you expect?” came the reply. “He hasn’t been able to shave these thousands of years.”

The next few hours were spent walking upstream along the bank of aforementioned river. It was v. tiring, but it was all worth it when we reached the end, and I saw the Sunrise- the _Easter_ Sunrise.

“My Lord,” I addressed Virgil. “It’s so v. beautiful!”

“ _Ita vero,_ my Pupil, _ita vero_.”

“I suppose this is it, then,” I sighed.

“No, Dante,” my Guide contradicted. “We must now pass through the Joyous Fire!” He gestured behind me, and there loomed Mount Purgatory, rising majestically (not to mention v. intimidatingly) in front of our path. “But you may rest here for the time being,” he allowed when he saw my crestfallen face.

He watched me scribble here in my diary for a while, and then asked, “You have been to Hell and back, Dante Alighieri. What do you think of the Great Abyss?”

“To be quite honest, Master,” I answered, “I find it a v. silly place.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title and diary style is a nod to the fic of the old LOTR staple Cassandra Claire. Smatterings of quotes from other sources, such as Monty Python and the Holy Grail and The Prophecy are meant merely as homages. I do not own them, nor is any money being made from this silly rendering. And di immortales, I DO NOT ENDORSE THE EXISTENCE OF THIS HELL, OR ANY OTHER.
> 
> I wrote this in high school for my final on the unit. I blame all inaccuracies on my poor secondary school education :) [Fashion aficionados will note that Dante is dressed in Renaissance instead of medieval garb. Apparently I couldn't read dates, or something.]


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